


Shining Through

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bedroom Sex, Bickering, Character Study, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after the night before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shining Through

**Author's Note:**

> For the kisses meme on tumblr (and lj), Fingon/Maedhros, shoulders, belly, abdomen, and nose. A veritable shopping list of body-parts, truly. 
> 
> Thanks, Alex and Elleth, for beta-ing.

A whisper of cold air touched his face and he woke with a stifled groan. The fire had gone out, long ago, and though he was still trapped under a pile of blankets and furs, the chill was enough to wake him, stirring up old memories of cracking ice. Little light strayed in from the windows, it was still mostly dark, though the eastern horizon was slowly turning pearl-grey, and lighter still.

Beside him, Maedhros sighed and turned over, still asleep -- and that was the astonishing thing. Fingon had to reach back deep into his memory for a time when he had seen Maedhros like this, unburdened for a moment, deep in sleep, apparently free of torments.

Giving into a childish impulse, he pulled away the blankets that covered Maedhros’ face. There it was, well-made features that had changed so much. They bordered now on harshness, even in sleep. (A nose very much like Fingon’s own, but that was family trait.) A line in between his brows that never lifted, and more fine ones on the corners of his eyes. A mouth turned ever downwards. 

How Maedhros had changed. 

Carefully, as not to wake him, Fingon touched Maedhros’ pale cheek, to see a faint flush creep up into it. His thumb lightly grazed Maedhros’ lips, which parted a little. It seemed to him that Maedhros’ breathing, which was once slow and regular, had quickened a little. There was a shift in the bed, a half-repressed sigh. Maedhros’ eyes opened and studied him, half-hid by a dark sweep of lashes. 

“Hoping to admire my beauty, cousin?” Maedhros’ voice was a warm purr, more seductive for the roughness that came with it. “I fear you will be sorely disappointed.” 

Fingon made a noise halfway between a sigh and a laugh. He tried to muffle himself -- without much success. Instead, he crowded in next to Maedhros, and his lover moved a little to give him a warmer place to lie. Fingon pressed his face into the red-gold mesh of Maedhros’ hair and the embroidery of the pillow, and breathed in. Maedhros freed his hair with no little difficulty. 

Fingon valiantly ignored the fuss. Instead, he said earnestly, “I never am, not with you.” 

Maedhros looked more relaxed now, awake and alert. It seemed to Fingon that he, by dint of some trick of expression and will, had neatly erased all signs of suffering from his face. He instead presented to the world a visage that was as hard as it was handsome.

He shook his head and gave Fingon a sharp look. Perhaps he had discerned the run of Fingon’s thoughts already, and wished to dislodge them, physically, if need be. 

He ran his hand through Fingon’s hair, tugging gently at the tangles.

“You were always the most outrageous liar.” 

“Ai Maitimo, doubt me if you will, but --”

Fingon paused, wondering if he should proceed. _Yes, you are not as beautiful as before, but I love you more now. You are beautiful in my eyes, and I cannot see you otherwise. You are beautiful because I love you._

All foolish thoughts, and he, the fool!

No one had ever accused Fingolfin’s eldest son of being too wise, a fact that Fingolfin’s eldest son knew all too well. But Fingon saw well enough what was now ahead of them. They had before them a long stretch of years -- alone -- except for those precious, few nights, and these fast-fading mornings. He shook his head, determined more than ever that they should not waste it, arguing over things that had mattered little before, and now mattered not at all. 

So he turned his face towards Maedhros’ hand, which still lay tangled in his hair, and he kissed it, the scarred palm and slippery of locks of hair alike. Maedhros stilled, and looked down at him quizzically. 

He said, “Not tired of this yet?” 

“No, not yet.” Fingon shook himself free of Maedhros’ grasp, and then pinned him down against the bed. Maedhros made for an exceedingly bony cushion, but eventually Fingon found a comfortable position between Maedhros’ legs. They wrapped around him, long and lean. 

“Káno, we will be late in getting up,” Maedhros said. Fingon was pleased to see a flush of warmth spread across Maedhros’ face, down to his neck, and then to his chest. Fingon bent forward, his mouth grazing Maedhros’ cheek. When Fingon kissed the end of his nose, Maedhros made a half-hearted noise of protest.

“We will have to hurry,” Fingon said, pulling back a little. He lowered his head and left a trail of kisses down Maedhros’ chest. Then he paused, waiting for Maedhros to protest further. 

But Maedhros was content to watch and say nothing. Fingon’s tongue flicked over one scar, still angry and red, that slashed across Maedhros’ stomach with particular intensity.

He looked up and Maedhros looked down. They did not feel the need to speak. Fingon tangled his hand in the rough red curls of his sex, almost absently. He had only given Maedhros’ cock a few strokes before Maedhros rolled him over and climbed on to him. Fingon gasped -- for air, in shock, and arousal, like a quick, dizzying climb up some high tower, where the air was thin. 

Maedhros was a heavy weight against Fingon’s chest. His long, red hair fell over them, and his face glowed, both beautiful and not a little cruel. Fingon stifled a gasp, and grabbed at anything that would bring them closer together -- an arm, a thigh, anything. He succeeded well enough -- his hands looped around Maedhros’ waist, and when Maedhros ground down, there was a delicious friction against their skin, against their cocks. 

Minutes passed by, breathless minutes, fraught and fraying at the edges, too intense to last. They rearranged themselves once again, hands caressing, legs tangled together, and hair stuck against skin.

A thin thread of pre-come snaked down Fingon’s thigh, and he sighed, palming his cock absently as Maedhros sucked kisses across his chest. Maedhros’ tongue flicked against Fingon’s collarbone, and followed the curve of well-knit muscle of his shoulder. 

Fingon found himself speaking, quietly, but intensely: _Yes, oh, yes, yes. Look, how beautiful, oh Maitimo, how bright you are! How beautiful, how I love you. This is -- this is how I remember. You, only you._

Maedhros laughed. Or perhaps he only shook, his eyes wild. 

Fingon moaned, forgetful of everything but the heat and lushness of Maedhros’ mouth against his skin, the scrape of teeth -- His cock arched upwards, and he longed for something more, something that would push him over the edge. 

Maedhros’ hand stroked him -- briefly -- but that was enough, and Fingon squeezed his eyes shut and came all at once, like an inexperienced youth. His face burned red and hot, and he took little desperate gulps of air. 

When Maedhros moved off him, after what seemed an age, or really, far too soon, Fingon caught a terribly smug look on his face. Oh! That look was familiar, though not on Maedhros’ face. His uncle Fëanor often wore that look when he would cut his father down with only a few well-chosen words. Fingon felt like he was wobbling, unable to pull himself together, as shattered as Fingolfin’s self-respect had once been. 

He sighed. Maedhros was right. He did take things too far -- and often strayed into territories that were downright bizarre. 

Fingon felt a cool cloth against his skin, cleaning him up, and he sighed. A warm hand pressed against his cheek, and Fingon smiled. 

Eventually, Maedhros began to make rumblings about dressing, breakfast, of personal responsibility left by the wayside, and how Fingon’s own bed would clearly look unslept in that night, and what a terrible thing it was. He said this all half-heartedly, and lapsed into silence when Fingon sat up and stretched. 

Fingon yawned, hugely and luxuriantly. “Dearest cousin,” he said, “if you think anyone is fooled by you rumpling my bedsheets, there is a bridge in Nargothrond that I would like to sell you.”

Maedhros looked as if he wanted to say that he would like to rumple Fingon’s sheets, but seeing Fingon’s broad grin, anticipating just such an answer... He settled for a stiff nod and marched out on his own business. 

Fingon lay still for a few minutes more, watching as the sunlight played across the wall of Maedhros’ chamber, picking up on the sparkle in the stone, warm, if only for the eye. Motes of dust were suspended in the sunlight, gold dust.

**Author's Note:**

> It’s a good thing elves don’t get morning breath. Or do they? 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Discuss.


End file.
